I'll Lean on You ...

The central theme of my "midlife" transition has been intimacy.  I'm not sure when or exactly how it began but I think the first stirrings are from about five years ago.  I have always been emotionally independent.  It's no one's fault, I'm sure that my experiences have not been so far off from the average of human experience, but somewhere I got the idea that real friendship was about being a kind, engaging, and generous person without asking for as much in return as I was willing to give. 

I'm not any kind of Saint Terri, I just somewhere got the idea that's the way it should be...

Kahlil Gibran's wonderful poem "The Prophet" came into my life when I was in college, and I loved his words about friendship. Part of that poem stuck in my mind and became my mantra, it wasn't a new thought, but it expressed my belief about good relationships.  Over the years I allowed the passage to mutate in my mind to even more closely conform to my opinion.

... what is your friend that you should seek him with hours to kill?
seek him always with hours to live
for it is not his to fill your emtpiness.

Are you familiar with Gibran?  Then you probably already noticed the part I left out.  And as I read this poem again last night I was struck, hard, by a word that I have previously not focused on in my reading.  Need.  Gibran uses the word twice, in the opening and again in the closing lines.  He neatly frames the verse. 

I'm not comfortable admitting that I have needs.  I'm much better about confessing after the fact that I HAD a need, but more in an apologetic, "don't worry, it's all taken care of now" kind of way.  Needs create dependence (I thought) and I saw that as a very bad thing.  From my side, dependence meant that I'm trapped because for some reason I can't do this thing for myself.  It meant that I was weak and that I would suffer because the source of my dependence would eventually be gone.  I would be left alone and suffering doubly because I  failed to grow, to learn, and to take care of myself.

I saw dependence as bad from the other side because then instead of a free coming together of hearts and minds, I believed I'd be a burden, perhaps taken up willingly but eventually becoming such a  heavy weight that my friend would have no choice but to leave me behind to preserve his own health and sanity.

So here's what I've learned.  That's hogwash.  People will most certainly come and go from my life.  Right now, I'm in the beautiful place where a number of people have come into my life in recent years and they are enormously enriching me and my world.  I'm dependent on them for support, for perspective, for love ... But you know what else?  They are dependent on me.  And it's not a burden.  It's interdependence.  Not ONE of the people in my life could ever be replaced.  I need them all. 

Because I need my friends, I'm taking my needs to them.  They have the right of love to know me and to have me be transparent with them.  Trying to "ask for less then I'm willing to give" sounds good, but it creates an inequity that interferes with true friendship.  I'm at a place, age, stage where I'm not willing to have anything, even myself, getting in the way. 

On Friendship
 Kahlil Gibran

Your friend is your needs answered.
He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving.
And he is your board and your fireside.
For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace.


When your friend speaks his mind you fear not the "nay" in your own mind, nor do you withhold the "ay."
And when he is silent your heart ceases not to listen to his heart;
For without words, in friendship, all thoughts, all desires, all expectations are born and shared, with joy that is unacclaimed.
When you part from your friend, you grieve not;
For that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain.
And let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit.
For love that seeks aught but the disclosure of its own mystery is not love but a net cast forth: and only the unprofitable is caught.


And let your best be for your friend.
If he must know the ebb of your tide, let him know its flood also.
For what is your friend that you should seek him with hours to kill?
Seek him always with hours to live.
For it is his to fill your need, but not your emptiness.
And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures.
For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.

Hmmmmm

I worked my last day at the lending company yesterday.  I still don't have a start date or an exact salary or any idea how this new job is going to work out, but I've been telling myself that I could deal with that, there's an amount of uncertainty everywhere, and well, I just needed to be a little more flexible.  It would build my character.

Last night, I stopped off at the store and when I came out my car wouldn't start.  It turns over but hte engine doesn't "catch".  And I know it has at least one gallon of gas in it ... SO I checked the fuses, none were blown.  There was strangeness happening in the dash, my "theft lock" light wasn't blinking, the "check engine" light came on, the instrument panel didn't respond when I turned my key, but the odometer light (not supposed to be on unless the key is in the ignition) was on all the time.

I know mechanical things happen in vehicles, but I'm thinking for things to be that weird a computer must be involved. 

I opened my glove compartment to get the number for roasside assistance and discovered that someone else has opened my glove compartment.  My little folder with owner's manual, insurance card, and registration was missing.  There are a lot of other things that ride around unprotected in my car, why would someone steal these things?!?  (I also had a Rod Stewart cd in there that's missing now, and a couple other cd's but I can't remember which ones.  They left the Abba cd ...go figure.)

So ... I called the Verizon wireless roadside assist.  And I can report that the most reliable network was having network problems.  It took me 30 minutes before I was able to get someone to pick up the phone.  I kept getting this recording that said, "Please make your selection within the time allowed" well, I was making my selection and it wasn't recognizing that I was doing anything. 

Once I was finally connected, they ordered a tow truck and told me that it would be there "within the hour" - I think it was the 59th minute of that hour.  But he did show up.  And that wait gave me time to call a couple friends and get advice on where to have the car towed.  So that was that ... almost.

By the time it was all done, I'd been away from home almost three hours.  I was hungry, tired, in desperate need of a potty break, and thinking I was going to walk home.  (I only live the equivalent of a block or two from the store because my condo is immediately behind the shopping center.  The longest part of the walk would have been around the buildings.)

A woman I know from the UPS store was driving by and saw me with the tow truck, so she stopped to see what the deal was.  And the upshot of that was that she gave me a ride home.  That's the ... third? time this particular woman has done me a favor.  So I'm thinking it's time for me to acknowledge her kindness with a gift certificate to her favorite restaurant or something.  I'll have to think about that because she also told me that she's on a diet ... but I'm sure I'll figure something out. 

ANYWAY, it's a GOOD thing that I don't have to leave this morning to drive to Arkansas, eh?  And it's looking like my quiet week at home is going to be even quieter and more at home than I'd imagined! 

Well, I have plans for my time here.  November is coming, I know it's hot outside now, but I can smell it in the air, crisp leaves (of paper), the smell of smoke (from the kids trying to cook), and the mounting excitement, anticipation, and "what if I don't get everything done in time" of the approaching day (Nov. 30) because of course I'm talking about NaNoWriMo. 

I've done it now for five? of it's seven years ... wow, I'm kind of getting to be one of the old ones ... but I've never taken my work to the level of completion I have wanted.  As the month rolls on I become more and more bogged down in "what are they going to do next" and the writing drags down from my blistering pace of several thousand words a day to maybe like a hundred and then I limp across the finish line with a book that looks like I ran out of steam and wrote, "then God fixed it all" ...

SO I am starting early.  Oh not on the writing of the book (exactly) that would be cheating.  But I am going to outline and figure out what they're "doing next" before I start the writing.  I even have a book to help me with that

Difficult Times ...

I've been thinking about the Chinese curse "may you live in interesting times" and then thinking about the times I've been living.  Things have felt difficult to me for a long time.  And in truth they have felt more difficult than they probably have been.

I'm a constant worrier.  I worry about money.  I worry about my health (and the boys).  I worry about my friends' health.  (Let my best friend mention and ache or pain and I have been known to fret for days until I hear that the doctor has confirmed that indeed it is not cancer.)  I worry about the size of my rear end, and the size of my stomach, the size of my arms and sometimes most especially the size of my feet.  I wish there were exercises that would make my feet a little less wide across the toes because there are SO many shoes out there and so few that fit me well.

“The period of greatest gain in knowledge and experience is the most difficult period in one’s life.” -- Dalai Lama

That Lama dude may be onto something, because I've been thinking about the lessons I've learned during these difficult times.  I've learned that Interdependence is far better than either Dependence or Independence.  I've learned that I can trust myself to support myself.  I've learned that too much time spent working kills my soul (and doesn't do much for the relationships I've got going in my life either). 

I've learned to view things from the perspective of time.  I ask , "What will I wish on the last days of my life that I had done?" and I do those things now.  Or at least I'm trying to get there.  I want to live so that the days of my life count. 

I've been reading Sue Shellenbarger's book, The Breaking Point, and she talks about how in the middle of their lives suddenly take a look around and see that something is missing from their life.  It's a different something for everyone although most of us tend to fall into one or the other of six main categories when we start filling in those pieces.

One of my very best friends went through a time of tremendous turmoil and transition a couple years ago when she turned 33.  She said several times that she was ahead of the curve and getting her nid-life crisis out of the way.  At the time I remember looking at her and thinking she was nuts.  That there was no such thing as a mid-life crisis!  Here I was a comfortable 6 years older than her with absolutely no predeliction for crisis at all. 

Then my life erupted and I'm thinking she maybe had more insight into her issues than I credited.  And just to reassure you, it's not necessary to have your life explode in order to get to the other side of the lessons to be learned in mid-life.   I think it's possible that some people who are wiser or better integrated personalities earlier in life transition through mid-life with barely a noticeable bump in their road. 

But on the journey of life, there are lessons to be learned, and if we have pushed one or two aspects of our humanity aside, those parts push back sooner or later. 

Which aspect calls to you?

The Lover who has become impatient with shallow connections and determines to find true intimacy (maybe in a love affair, maybe in deeper relationship with friends and family).

The Seeker who looks beyond the material world to connect with Spirit.

The Gardener who may literally tend the earth, or who may turn toward creating "HOME".

The Leader who assumes full responsibility for living and sharing the gifts time has instilled.

The Adventurer who steps out of the comfortable and follows the challenges of travel, growth, or extreme sports ...

The Artist who creates with whatever medium represents the vision or message that soul needs to express.

There is more to each of these than my quick little summary above.  But hopefully I've given you enough of a snippet to help you identify which of these may be simmering below your surface.  Do you have a story about finding one or more of these aspects and perhaps being surprised?  I'd like to hear it.

One More Day

Tomorrow is my last day.  I work 8-3 and then I'm all done and out of there.  I had been planning then to leave on Sunday morning to go to Arkansas and get the kids, but my parents are coming here for my Aunt's 50th anniversary party.  So they are bringing the boys.  That leaves me suddenly with a whole week free to ... sleep? write? finish putting together the house?

I've mentioned the writing project from Iowa.  You all know I fretted over it, and worried about it.  Well, the solution I finally arrived at was to make my story ... fiction.  Place names are real.  Names are real.  Other than that every single card has fiction mixed in with elements of my life over the past two years.  Some very important people (Cool Mary, Faith, Natasha) are not in this story at all.  Others (Dream Man)... well, that name says it all right? 

                                                Waikiki Beach, HI
Dear Mom,

                                                Salem, IN

                                                Kansas City, MO

                                                Colby, KS

5
                                                Colorado Springs, CO

6

                                                Colorado Springs, CO

Dear Mom,

9

Dear Mom,

10
                                                Colorado Springs, CO

 
13
                                                Colorado Springs, CO

16

                                        Albuquerque, NM

20

At the writing conference, you learn things you never expect to hear.  In our general lectures we heard a marvelous speaker, Robin Hemley, who built upon the scandal of the James Frey fake memoir and discussed the history of such works.  People have always claimed to have knowledge and experiences they never could have achieved. 

Mr Hemly's point was that writers are people who always combine memory and imagination to create short stories and novels and that successful writers will learn to tell their stories as better and more genuine liars. 

Telling True Lies

On the first morning of the writing
conference in Iowa you meet the
fiction writers, the screenwriters, poets
and the therapists come to make
their characters more authentic,
to resolve their characterly issues.
You learn that mining the soil
of real life is tricky, that just
because it "really happened", well,
that doesn't make it real.  So to tell
the good story you have to decide
what to leave out, where to add,
and who will get to speak the
juiciest lines you wish you'd said.
You read the rough draft in class and
ask, "can you believe it?  Have you ever
heard of such a thing?"  When they answer,
"I thought this character had a truly honest
voice ..." you know you failed.
But when they stop you in the line
at the noodle shop where you all
go for lunch and say, "I'm rooting
for you!  After you read your story this
morning, I'm so glad you got a divorce,
I'm so glad you moved across the world,
I loved when you ... and then when you
told that villian off ..."
You know you have something
Garrison Keillor will read on the radio
and everyone will know your lies
for the truth that lies beneath.

Y A W N

I woke up just long enough today to meet a friend for lunch, and then I crawled right back in bed for a five hour nap. 

My Mind is Mush

This week has been incredible. I have taken so many notes, written down so many snippets that I want to incorporate into my writing over the next months and gathered so many new ideas ... I haven't had time to think about any of them hardly at all.

My instructor had great praise and some excellent suggestions for where I might tweak my story. My class applauded.

Cool Mary says (with exasperation) "Your friends tell you that your writing is good WHY don't you believe us?"

I dunno

I truly don't know why I have this panic about my work. My conference with my instructor was scheduled just after lunch today. (Which didn't seem to hurt my appetite so I have some serious repenting to do next week ...) I made it all the way to the classroom before my nerves took over. Then I stood outside the door, too nervous to go in. I had to text my best friend for moral support.

"What was I thinking? This is MY life that is about to be critiqued! I have exposed the utter banality of it all in a way that requires that someone TELL me how awful it is."

I get the reply almost instantly, "Are you KIDDING me?!?"

Mary says I have enough drama and know enough interesting people to coast for years before I would have to do anything else to make my memoir exciting.

In fact, I'm planning how I will organize the next weeks and months. Last year I left Iowa and jumped straight back into my frenetic work schedule. I never really relaxed or made the time I needed for writing. This year, I have already adjusted my mental schedule to include time for using the things I've learned. Oh, and we are already planning what we will take NEXT summer.

First I have to sleep though ...

Saturday I'm driving back to Colorado and that's 12+ hours I can spend with my thoughts, getting a handle on it all. Don't worry if I don't check in for a couple of days.

Thank You

Thank you all for your support. I did finish my project and I turned it in today.

The past several years of my life have been both horrifying and beautiful. There are times that have been so bleak that the only way I was able to get out of bed was because I HAD to. And days that were so incredibly awesome that it was like being drunk on life.

When I sat down to complete my project for this class, I was to write my story as a series of postcards. I started it by addressing the postcards to my mother. This is not because my mom doesn't already know (most) of my story, but because the subtext of this project is the issues of middle life and these are topics that I would love to be able to discuss with her.

On the other hand, many parts of my story are well, pathetic. I shared the postcards with Cool Mary today and she said that it's hard to imagine that I could be happy that she came back into my life. Since she began reasserting influence upon me my marriage is broken up, I've been homeless, I'm poverty stricken, and at various times I lose control of myself and eat like a pig (you should have seen me at dinner - on second thought, never mind that, just trust me that it wasn't pretty.)

Let me be clear that I don't hold Cool Mary in any way responsible for the condition of my life today. She has been nothing but supportive and helpful as I've tried to find my way.

Now, the other side of this is that I do HAVE a story to tell. But to whom should I tell it?

Yes, my marriage had problems severe enough to end it. That was extremely painful to me, and to my ex-husband. I'm still in recovery from some of those problems. Do I have the right to publish that?

So here's the deal. I sort of told my story, but I fictionalized it. I put things out of order, I made up characters to play minor parts in the story. I glossed over some parts. And I wrapped it up neatly.

I turned in my project today, and we'll see what the instructor has to say. I will read it to my class tomorrow for feedback. And I gotta tell you that's a serious issue. The first projects were presented today and they were incredible. If I'd had any kind of smarts at all I'd have wrestled for a place at the front of the line so I wouldn't have to follow these brilliant acts.

Whew

Roman a clef

Sigh

Just when I think I'm ready to jump in there and bare all, metaphorically speaking of course, I get a mental image of the look on certain person's faces if they should read my story. My mother comes to mind, then my ex-husband, then there is the 23 year old that Michael will one day be ... (I don't know why I assume this, but I think that Tucker can pretty much handle things, it's Michael I worry about.)

Anyway, so I started writing my story in the workshop. And I'm stalled out. Even leaving out large pieces and fictionalizing others, I can't tell it.